AUTUMN LEAVES 

!*Y ' 17 KHn^JGftEENAWALT 




k . 



PS 

3513 
?455/l8 
1^03 ► 



/ 



* 







Glass_ 5 I a 

Book . 4-S5 




? 4^ 



Autumn Leaves 



BY 

FANNIE J. GREENAWALT 
m 



CHICAGO 

THE HENNEBERRY COMPANY 

M C M I I I 

c oyo tfz 70 hi- /°o^' 



? 6 J) 



By transfer 

White 



lj|ft? arr all rljildrrn of rtrrumBtaur?B. 
U? fa?r? n,tfi?n life foitljoni bolUton of 
our ohm; fa? must pang out in tljr Bam? 
mann?r. 5Flj? mnBt?nj of life anb o?atfj 
faljo ran aolb?? GDur 3f?an?nly 3Fatfj?r 
knofa?ilj, anb faith, ijtm fa? ar? Baf?. 







THESE FEW SONGS 

I VERY CORDIALLY DEDICATE 

TO MY LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTER, 

WHOM I SHALL LOVE UNTIL, AND AFTER, 

THE STARS FADE AWAY AND SET 

IN AN ENDLESS ETERNITY. 

FANNIE J. GREENAWALT. 




HINE, softly shine, 

Oh! welcome sunbeams, shine, 
With golden key unlock the band 
And melt the Ice-King's cold white hand, 
Shine and shimmer o'er country and town 
Till ropes of pearls shall trickle down, 
Shimmer and shine, till the sleeping bees 
Stir in their honeyed nests, and the trees 

Pour forth their yellow wine. 
Shine, softly shine. 

Blow, softly blow, 
West and south winds, blow, 
Bear to us the twittering notes 
From happy song-birds' little throats; 
Blow through hollow, dell, and dale, 
Blow from forest, plain, and vale, 
Till o'er the land from east to west, 
From wave-kissed beach to mountain crest, 
Shall fall no more the snow. 
Blow, softly blow. 

Fall, softly fall, 
Sweet, tender raindrops, fall, 
Till starry blossoms in meadows green, 
And violets — thoughts of the spring — are seen; 
And the woodland carpet rich and rare 
Of moss, with arbutus trailing there, 
Fall so softly, and drop so light, 
Until glad April, merry and bright, 
Echoes to your call. 

Fall, softly fall. 



f 



LIKE a laughing, brown-eyed maiden, 
Beautiful and chy, 
With a wreath of buds and blossoms, 
Fair May passes by. 

Luring gay and happy children 

To the rippling brook, 
While afar the south winds whisper; 

Little eyes just look. 

See the early nodding flowers, 

Pink, white, and blue, 
Secrets telling where last May-time 

Blue-eyed violets grew. 

Where the trailing meek arbutus 

Hiding from sight, 
In the brown leaves lie her treasure; 

Delicate and bright. 

Gladsome May ! a joyful welcome, 

We give to thee — 
Welcome sunshine, birds and flowers, 

Songs blithe and free. 



S 



^ [^HERE'S a rustle of wings in the chimney, 

** And twitterings soft and low, 
What does it mean I wonder? 
Somebody ought to know. 

Come close to my heart dear children 

And listen a moment, I trow 
There are birdies in the chimney, 

Dear little swallows I know. 

Yes ! you would like to see them, 

But the mother bird says no, 
You would frighten my darling babies 

To death; let them grow. 

Five of them here in their cradle, 

Five in a tiny brown row 
To feed, so I go away to the brook 

In the meadow, where the waters ripple and 
flow. 

I'll be back very soon with something 

To eat, the birdies know — 
And now I will tell you a secret; 

Let me whisper it soft and low, 
My birdies soon will use their wings, 

And fly — away they'll go. 



MERE, on ihis low grave I'll pause and rest 
thus! 
Look how with ivy his name is overgrown, 
And the moss clings so softly to the cold gray 
stone, 
Like Christ's sweet love and pity clinging unto us. 

Here 1 will rest, and therefore do not weep! 
My battles I have fought — all were not won, 
Some were lost ere they were well begun — 

So on this grave, wounded and bereft, I'll sleep. 

He said he loved me. Stay the falling tear. 

Was I loved well? If so, I had my day! 

You may go now; beyond those willows lies 
your way 
Among the roses. Mine, I think, ends here. 

Cold world, I care not for your love or hate! 
Once with childish eagerness I would have 

grasped its joys, 
And was but mocked and baffled with its cruel 
noise; 
Now I am lying here, forlorn and desolate. 

Here, then, I'll rest, on this low mound, thus! 
Look how with moss and ivy his name is over- 
grown; 
And the lichens cling so softly to the cold gra*' 
stone, 
Like angels' tear-drops clinging unto us. 



TWTT OTHER, are the flower*, is fair 
^ v In the same old garden ways; 

As when I rambled down the walks 
In those happy childish days? 

Are the lilacs just as tall — 

And the marigolds as sweet? 
Does the myrtle cling to the garden wall 

And around the rustic seat? 

Are the meadows beyond as green? 

Does the rippling brook yet flow? 
Do the fishes play hide-and-seek all day 

As they used to long ago? 

Are the blue-jays still as wild, 
In their merry chattering glee? 

And does the red squirrel's laughter ring 
In the old sweet-apple tree? 

Does the chestnut grove remain? 

And down by the woodland spring 
Do the wild grape vines from every tree 

Their purple clusters swing? 

In childhood's happy hours, 

With their many hopes and#fears; 

How merciful, that we're spared the thoughts 
Of the storms in after years. 



LISTEN, love, to the robin's plaintive 
calling; . 
The bluebird's aria in the budding trees, 
From morn till eve upon my ear is falling 

The drowsy droning of the humming bees, 
And all day long the river is surging, singing, 

A glorious song of spring-time's merry glee; 
While the glad shouts of children's voices 
ringing, 
Are borne upon the soft south wind to me. 

Sorrowful April rain, your mournful sobbing 

Brings back those halcyon days of yore, 
With longing all my heart is throbbing 

For loved ones I shall see no more — 
Far off South-land, waft thy breezes over 

The mound they made one dreary winter day; 
Wake the sweet violet, and the white clover, 

Let their perfume cover one I love, hidden 
away. 



THE glorious sun from azure skies 
Smiles down on meadow, vale and grove. 
While from the golden wheat-fields rise 

Sighs like the murmurings of love; 
The noisy streamlet sings no more 

Nor dashes o'er its stony bed, 
But sleepily along the shore, 
Winds like a silver thread. 

The lowing kine from hills and leas, 

With wise and cautious air — 
Their long felt yearnings to appease 

Towards its cooling depths repair; 
And gracefully upon its banks. 

The blue anemone appears, 
With tiny hands upraised in thanks, 

And love's eyes full of tears. 

The sparrows gaily loud of voice when spring 
Came laughing in — laden with butter-cup and 
bee — 
Since then, subdued they sing, 

But sweeter far their melody; 
The bough that promised much in May, 

Freighted with bloom so bright and fair, 
Fulfils its prophecy today 

In fruits both ripe and rare. 

Delightful summer, thee with joy we hail! 

But soon, afar, will come the whispering 
blast 
Of winter, in every northern gale, 

Sweeping these golden hours into the past; 
And thus old age creeps on apace — 

Our locks are silvering one by one, 
God grant us all that tender grace 

We need to say, " Thy will be done." 



r HRN the soft breath of spring wafts over 

The verdant hills, perfume from violets 

fair; 

For thee, no more shall bloom the crimson clover, 

Found in hollows, the dells, and everywhere. 

E'en amid the gloomy pines, with long arms 
swinging, 

Their somber shadows on the meadows lie 
Among the flowers, spectral-like and bringing 

Sad thoughts to a heart empty for aye. 

The river is singing its olden measure 

And harebells are ringing a merry chime; 

Naught has changed that once brought us pleasure; 
Only you and I've felt the touch of time. 

Walking this path where we once roved together 
* Thy loss I deplore with exquisite pain; 
Feeling, yes, knowing, come bright or dark 

weather, 
Thy feet on these hills shall stray never again. 

Thou art far beyond my heart's wildest yearning; 

There is nothing, no nothing can pierce the 
gloom 
Of the long night that notes no spring's returning, 

In that silent mystery that shrouds the tomb. 



^TT^HE meadow lark sings in the clover, 
^ The wind softly rustles the wheat; 
And Harry has left his easel 

To lie in the grass at my feet — 
'Tis well! Let us rest from labor, 

Forgetting the worry and heat. 
Low murmuring through the silence 

A little brook glides by, 
Wooing the silver tipped cloudlets 

Sailing a deep blue sky, 
That seem to rest on its bosom, 

The same as they float on high. 
A spring, bubbling up through the mosses, 

Where wild flowers bend to drink; 
With ferns leaning lovingly over, 

While primroses guard its brink; 
And up from lush meadow grasses 

Swells the warble of bobolink. 
God speed unto Nature's sweet wooing; 

O'er the world, on land or sea! 
Is it strange that Harry's relating 

The "same old story " to me? 
Oh, well! Strange things will happen, 

All nature is mating, so — we. 
I listen no more for the murmur 

Of brook, or of breeze in the wheat; 
For sweeter than bobolink's trilling 

Is the story I hear him repeat; 
The wheat ears bend lower to listen — 

And the picture with love is replete. 



NLY a broken heart — 

Wandering alone — 
Waiting the morning's welcome light; 
Toiling on through the weary night 

O'er moss and stone, 

Only a broken heart — 

Mourning the past — 
Crushed 'mid the never-ceasing strife 
Of fret and weariness called life, 
Vanquished at last. 

Only a broken heart — 

Weary, oppressed, 
Welcoming with fast failing breath 
The blessed messenger of death, 
At last — Rest. 

Only a broken heart — 

On heaven's shore — 
Receives where justice at last is shown; 
God's blessed verdict from heaven's throne, 
Joy evermore. 



(Lines suggested by the parting of husband and wife in 
Boston, the former bound for Klondyke.) 

^FOU are going far away to the North-land, 

*■* Far away where the cold winds blow; 
To gather up the bright yellow gold-sand 
Amid the icy glaciers and the snow. 

In that strange, weird light, that shines at mid- 
night, 

You will think of the one left behind, 
Who is waiting and longing for the sunlight 

Of your smile, ever gracious and kind. 

You'll come back, love, I know in the morning, 
When all nature is blushing like the rose; 

I'll be up with the birds, and adorning 
Our humble little cottage till it glows. 

Then farewell, dearest one, for a season — 
Prayers and blessings will guide you on your 
way, 

I'll be waiting and watching for the reason, 
You'll need me when we're both old and gray. 



UT from the light of cheer and gladness, 
Into the shade of sorrow and strife; 
Oft enveloped in clouds of sadness, 
Fighting alone the battle of life. 

Out of the sun and into the shade, 

To lose 'mid shadows the weary way, 

Regretting the many mistakes I've made, 
Drifting on helplessly day by day. 

Out of the sun of love's sweet dreaming, 

Into the shade of riper years; 
When youth's bright dreams with beauty teeming, 

Are recalled with sighs and bitter tears. 

Out of the sun and into the shade, 

Blindly stumbling o'er brier and stone; 

'Til suddenly, helpless, startled, dismayed, 
I stand at the foot of the great white throne. 

Out of the shade and into the sun; 

Out of the turmoil, the trouble, and strife, 
Receiving my Master's brief" well done," 

T enter the portals of heavenly life. 



'ER the dark waters to that beautiful shore 
Where Christ and the angels be; 
On, pressing on to the grand evermore, 
My dear one has wandered from me; 
Has drifted away to the beautiful day, 

Where the love-light falls sweetly forever; 
To the throne so bright in the radiant light 
Of God's blessed smile, o'er the river. 

He is waiting now by the river of life 

For one not so happy as he! 
Where pain cometh not, neither sickness nor strife, 

In that home o'er the silvery sea — 
His soul is at rest in the land of the blest, 

Where heart-ache and sighs are known never, 
And no discordant notes on the gentle breeze 
floats, 

In that city of peace o'er the river. 



THE music of a waterfall 
Miles away, 
The chirping from a robin 

Lighting on a spray, 
The rippling from a meadow stream 

O'er mossy boughs, 
The lowing from a grazing herd 

Of gentle cows, 
The sound from distant hill 

Of cuckoo's call, 
The lights and shadows o'er the grass 

At evening fall — 
Too deep these harmonies 

For any school, 
Such meaning is not understood 

By pen or rule, 
But when the heart is crushed, 

To make it well, 
These little things have power and skill 

That none can tell. 
The memory of a loving word 

Long gone by, 
The perfume of a withered flower, 

A little sigh, 
The beaming of a sudden smile, 

Or the quick tear, 
The pressure of a friendly hand 

Above a bier, 
The blush that means more than we speak; 

Yet we have heard 
The notes, that bear only a verse 

From God's holy word. 
Such little things we scarcely count 

As ministry; 
Those having given thinking they have shown 

Small sympathy, 
But when the heart is crushed, 

Ah! who can tell 
The power of such little things 

To make it well. 



^TT^IRED of life, its burdens and cares; 

*■* Tired of watching for pitfalls and snares 
That surround me on every side; 
Tired of working for others' gain; 
Tired of heart and tired of brain, 
When cometh the eventide? 

Tired of toiling while others sleep; 
Tired of smiles when forced to weep 
At the crosses that I must bear; 
Feeling like one from the world apart; 
Only at rest when my tired heart 
Is lifted in silent prayer. 



govt* 

TRONGER than death is love; she cannot 
doubt, and never will, with passing years 
grow cold, but now and ever she will softly fold 
our hearts within her keeping. All about and 
over them she traces good; each day disclosing 
some new blessing that our souls delight, and 
unexpected makes the shades of night griet 
brings to steal our joys away break into morning, 
leads us on through desolate, barren ways, and 
though the world may us defame glories to call 
us lovingly by name. False she can never be; 
is ever true, and we have wealth who have not 
gold or lands, if by our side whate'er betide, 
Love stands. 

Once when lilies were in bloom — 
Summer's breath perfuming — 
I wandered with my little love, 
My blue-eyed baby, crooning, 
I crowned her with the lilies, 
With violets and lilies. 

Once again at close of day 
Whip-poor-wills were calling, 
We two strayed through garden paths 
'Mid blossoms softly falling, 
I crowned my love with lilies, 
With violets and lilies. 

Now the lilies bloom once more, 
Little love is sleeping — 
Dimpled hands and feet are still — 
And I, while weeping, 
Crown my love with lilies, 
With snow-white fragrant lilies. 



drifting &pavt. 

*fpj\ RIFTING apart as the days go by, 
"^ Each one anxious and ready to cry; 
Here a laugh, and there a sigh — 
What will the end be, bye-and-bye? 

Two loving hearts that know no feani, 
Beautiful eyes that are filled with tears; 
Never a kiss or a word that cheers, 
How will pass the lone weary years? 

You stood at the altar long ago — 
Life was young and sweet I trow; 
Why were you not true? — I know 
You were not mated, oh no, no! 
He was all for gold — you see — 
Therefore your love, it could not be 
All in all unto him, for he 
Worshiped the dollars, so you are free 
In God's sight — and the little girl? 
Does not count in the mad whirl 
Which draws him in amid the swirl 
Of a fast life, only a pearl 
On memory's string, one less, that's aH, 
Let her go, never mind the fall — 
He is happy 'mid great and small, 
Wait, 'til he hears the Masters' s call. 

Hush ! He does not believe in God, 
Well, he will sleep beneath the sod 
Forgotten, as if he had never trod 
Upon earth, for he's only — a clod. 



J\K[ Y dtrling, my beloved ! I wait your 
" * H coming, for I am loyal still, 
And listening in the twilight I hear the vesper 

bell on yonder hill, 
Its intonations long and deep reverberate, echo, 

and re-echo till my heart 
Is filled with tenderness and longing for thee, 

dear love, so far apart 
From present joys, that if I were a dove I 

could not rest — 
Until my wings had skimmed the wave, that I 

might lay my best 
Fair offerings at thy feet — bedewed with tears 

for thy sweet sake; 
And so I pray thee (kneeling here) this olive 

branch of peace to take. 



(This little song was inspired by an incident in New York 
where an aged mother wa* thrown into the street by her 
children.) 

UT in the cold, the winds blowing, 

Wanders poor mother forlorn; 

She's neither home nor a shelter — 

Out in the pitiless storm. 

Chorus: — Why is she left and forsaken? 
Why must she wander alone? 
There are none left to love mother, 
None to give mother a home. 

She has a son and a daughter 
But they are selfish and cold; 

For money their souls they would barter, 
So she's neglected and old. 

Chorus: — Why is she left and forsaken? 

Why must she wander alone? 
There are none left to love mother, 
None to give mother a home. 

Have they forgotten the Saviour? 

His words should be precious to all: 
Honor thy father and mother, 

Whether in hut or in hall. 

Chorus: — Why is she left and forsaken? 

Why must she wander alone? 

There are none left to love mother, 

None to give mother a home. 



^TT^ODAY as I sat in the window, 

" Thrumming my harp as of yore; 
There passed in a beautiful carriage 
A lady, with jewels galore — 
Her hair was a dream of the sunshine, 
Her hands like white lilies, were pressed 
Close to her throbbing bosom, 
Where a carrier dove was at rest. 

Soft as the sweep of an angel's wing, 
Gentle as voice of prayer, 
She breathed o'er this emblem of purity 
In tones that were rich and rare; 
Will you tell him, my beautiful darling, 
My pretty one, softly and low — 
How I am longing to see him, 
And, that I love him so? 

The vkion has passed like the morning, 
'Tis night, and I'm sitting alone; 
Here in the gathering darkness, 
With only my dog, and — a bone. 



WHEN crickets chirp and brown is each 
hillside, 
And swallows circle round and round then 

homeward fly; 
When fragrant leaves in every hollow lie 
Through woods and vales where timid rabbits hide; 
And gleams of sunlight 'mid the shadows guide 
The weary hunter, over moss and mire, 
Pressing on eagerly for home and fire, 
Then, may we know 'tis golden Autumn-tide. 

When fields of wheat are rustling far and wide, 
And slowly homeward through the woods and 

lanes 
We hear the roll of heavy-laden wains; 

When nuts are falling on the mountain-side 

And orchards yield their fruits with blush of 
pride; 
When forests echo songs of happy swains 
And every tree a richer russet gains, 

Then is the glad year's glorious Autumn-tide. 

When love and charity with us abide, 
And welcome fruit from work well done 
Is seen, and long sought happiness is won, 

Together with contentment, peace, and pride, 

And we begin to sigh for rest beside; 
Patiently waiting from day to day 
While dreams of ambition fade away, 

Then is life mellowing into Autumn-tide. 



*T^r WAY on the upland calleth the plover, 
^* ^ Piping his song where the reapers toil; 
Down in the valley the crimson clover 
Lovingly kisses the sunburned soil. 

The far hills, purple in misty splendor, 

The brown slopes, bright with yellow maize, 

While over the meadows, soft and tender, 
Lieth the summer's dreamy haze. 

The gentians blue, and snowy aster, 

Bring back to us " Love's young dream," 

When together we floated, fast, and faster, 
'Mid falling leaves, down the moonlit stream. 

Dear heart, thou art with the earth sweetly 
sleeping, 
While the sunlight shimmers on moss and 
mold, 
And I, alone, the tryst am keeping, 

As days pass away and the year grows old. 

The snow will soon, like a soft shroud cover 
Fields of brown, the wood, and plain; 

Dear Lord, let us rest, while storms pass over, 
Ere the scroll of life be unfurled again. 



^ r^HE wind is moaning drearily, 

^ The day is wet and cold, 
And I think of that mound on the hillside, 

That is only a few months old — 
I dream of that pale, sad face, 

That I never may see again; 
And of the bright hopes cherished 

Only to prove in vain. 

I watch the snowflakes falling, 

Lost in the dreams of old — 
And I almost forget that he is dead, 

Lying under the frost and cold; 
Far away from the world's dark strife, 

He has crossed the mystic river, 
Beyond the sunset of azure and gold, 

Has entered the long forever. 

The days will lengthen into weeks, 

Weeks into months will grow; 
Springtime will come and the glad sunshine 

Will melt the ice and snow, 
The soft May winds will wake the flowers 

From mother earth, old and gray, 
But the memory of that pale, sad face 

Can never pass away. 



'TQJ RUSH back the locks from off her brow, 
"-** She sweetly sleeps and does not heed 

you now, 
Fold the pale hands upon the quiet breast, 
She is at rest. 

God's ways are not like ours, the Scriptures say, 
Therefore, however dark the day 
Think only this, 'twill aid you when oppressed, 
She is at rest. 

For what is woman's life at best but pain; 
And when the struggle ends 'tis woman's gain- 
Yes, she has gone where tears are never known, 
To Christ and home. 

Then let this thought bring sweet relief, 
Comfort and joy though tinged with grief, 
She is at rest, all sorrow o'er — 
For evermore. 



31 T$vayitv. 

FATHER in heaven, wearily we turn to 
thee; 
Upon a sea of doubt, tempest tossed 
And driven almost upon the rocks 
Of failure and despair, whither shall we flee? 
Help us, Oh God, or we are lost 
Forever, give us strength to own thy sway, 
And may we place our hands in thine, 
Knowing thou wilt lead us into perfect peace, 
And shield us with thy love each day, 
Until we are perfected by thy will divine, 
When, radiant in thy glory, crowned by thee, 
We shall forever sing the new song, then, 
Be led into green pastures and see 
The still waters, and thee, Oh Christ — Amen. 



The orchestra was pealing forth its most 
delicious strains, when Marian Gray swept 
into the concert hall in the village of 

N and took her seat in front, alone. 

This hall, as is the custom in country towns, 
was used for various purposes, it being the 
only available room large enough to ac- 
commodate an audience of any size. Miss Gray 
loosened her cloak, and adjusting her gloves, 
settled herself in her seat with as much ease 
as if she were wholly unaware of the admi- 
ration that thrilled the hearts of many in the 
assemblage at her advent, for she was very 
popular, being possessed of beauty, a pleasing 
address, and a goodly amount of mining stock, 
having inherited from her father a large in- 
terest in the somewhat noted Nevada silver 
mine, "The Bonny Bell." But the murmur- 
ing suddenly ceased, the orchestra came to 
a grand finale and after the usual introduc- 
tion the lecturer began his discourse, then 
Marian and all else except the speaker were, 
for a time, forgotten. 

Young ladies assumed their sweetest smiles 
and found themselves wondering if he were 
married, or single, whether he preferred 
blondes, or brunettes, and how they could ar- 
range an introduction. 

Paul Somers seemingly regardless of the 
sensation he was creating, held forth elo- 
quently in regard to present ideas and dealt 
largely with ancient ways and customs. Many 
were glad that they had worn their plainest 



attire, for his lecture indicated that simplicity 
was far more to be desired than affected 
elegance. 

Marian Gray sitting there in all her mag- 
nificence was conscious of the many mistakes 
she had made, how selfish she had been even 
from childhood and how empty and barren 
her life was. It really seemed that his words 
were hurled at her with terrible vindictive- 
ness, she was moved almost to tears ; why, it 
was impossible for her to understand. 

Too proud to acknowledge her faults even 
by a look, she shut her lips and listened with 
passionate suffering in her heart that she was 
wholly unable to restrain, resolving in that 
moment of regret to make her future an atone- 
ment for the past. It was soon ascertained 
that Paul Somers, who was at present the 
whole topic of conversation, was none other 
than a young clergyman, or rather would 
be as soon as ordained, fresh from college 
and anxious to enter upon his life work, and 
as the only church of which the village could 
boast had been closed for some time on 
account of the death of the pastor, he was a 
few weeks later duly installed therein. One 
bright Sabbath morning in June, Marian 
dressed with more than usual care, and at the 
first sound of the bell taking her Bible, bound 
in blue and gold, wended her way slowly along 
the well-worn footpath until she reached the 
church door, here she was confronted by Ethel 
Dean, daughter of the village doctor, who, 
after a cheerful "good morning," kindly 



begged leave to introduce Mr. Somers, she 
having been presented the evening previous. 

Marian lifted her brows in a haughty stare 
saying, "No thank you, I do not care to be 
lectured." 

"But, my dear Marian, Mr. Somers can have 
no intention of lecturing you." 

"Indeed, why do you think so? Has there 
been one Sabbath morning since he came that 
he has not given us a most scathing lecture?" 

And turning, Marian beheld the object of 
their conversation with such a reproachful 
look on his pale face, and, — or did she im- 
agine it, — tears in his dark eyes. 

She knew then that their conversation had 
been overheard. It was more than she could 
endure, and with an angry, indignant look she 
swept into church. 

The summer days emerged into autumn and 
so strictly had Marian avoided Mr. Somers 
that she had never yet spoken to him, al- 
though they had often met in the abodes of 
poverty, and once by the bedside of a dying 
child whom Marian had nursed for weeks in 
the vain hope that with good care it would 
recover. At Mrs. Merton's, a poor widow, one 
lovely afternoon in September, they met again, 
and Marian, rising quietly laid down her work 
and left the house. She walked slowly and 
thoughtfully until she reached the stile, then 
seating herself with clasped hands, burst into 
a flood of tears. A quick step near her, and 
lifting her flushed, tear-stained face, she saw 
Mr. Somers standing by her with folded arms 
and the same reproachful look in his eyes. 



He came nearer, put out his hands passionately 
and caught hers in his strong clasp, saying, 
"Marian Gray, why do you hate me?" 

"I don't hate you, but you need not scold 
me so much, just as they all do; I know I am 
sinful without being constantly reminded of 
it" 

"Then why do you avoid me, are you afraid 
I might reprove you?" 

"No, not that— but— I don't know." And a 
painful blush suffused Marian's face as he 
clasped the hand a little that she was trying 
to draw away. Glancing up in his face with 
a pretty attempt at authority she said, "Stop, 
some one is coming!" and turning they be- 
held Miss Dean, her hands filled with golden- 
rod, and looking so sweet in her confusion 
that they both laughed outright" 

"I beg your pardon," she exclaimed. "I 
fear I have interrupted an interesting tete-a- 
tete." 

"Not in the least," replied Mr. Somers. 
"We were about to cross the stile, will you 
accompany us?" with a meaning look at Ma- 
rian. A great wish rose in the pastor's heart 
to call this wayward girl his own; but he 
knew that could not be, for she had wealth 
while he was only a poor clergyman ; whereas 
before he had hoped to win her regard, now 
he was more miserable by far than when she 
had treated him with so much indifference. 
Marian noticed the change in his manner but 
wisely remained silent, and they walked to the 
village without a word. 

The autumn passed slowly away, and Octo- 



ber with its gay robe of crimson leaves was 
nearly done, when one day Marian received a 
message from her attorney in New York bear- 
ing the terrible news that, "rival corporations 
profiting by a decrease in output of ore, 
coupled with. a heavy assessment and lack of 
public confidence, in order to absorb the mine, 
had depressed the stock value of the 'Bonny 
Bell,' to a figure that left her almost penni- 
less." She who had never known the worth 
of money could scarcely realize her terrible 
position. She was grieved, shocked, horrified, 
and went out alone to battle with her grief 
and heartache. "Oh! Paul, Paul," she cried, 
with a passionate sob flinging herself face 
down at the foot of the stile where they had 
last met. 

"What will become of me now?" Somebody 
gathered her up in his strong arms, some- 
body drew her close to his wildly beating heart, 
saying very low, "Marian, my little one, look 
up at me, how came you here?" She twined 
her fair soft arms around his neck, she felt his 
tears on her face, and knew — oh happy Marian, 
— that out of her pain her life's great joy had 
come to her at last. 

And in the merry Christmas time, the hap- 
piest of the year, Paul Somers and Marian 
Gray stood before the altar in the little church, 
and to the merry tinkling of the sleigh bells, 
outside, repeated the vows that made them man 
and wife. A little later at the home of the 
bride, as they were receiving the congratula- 
tions of their many friends, they were startled 
by a violent ringing of the bell and a moment 



later Marian was handed a telegram ; tearing it 
open in breathless haste, she read : 

New York, Dec. 15th, 18— 

Miss Marian Gray:— Congratulations, reac- 
tion has come, stock of "Bonny Bell" selling 
at par, every prospect for further advance. 

L. S. Curtis. 

Paul is still pastor of the village church, 
doing his duty and beloved by all. While 
Marian loves to tell the little Ethel leaning 
upon her knee, how in the shadow of sin and 
adversity came the light of prosperity and 
love. 



CHAPTER I. 

By the bars in the meadow — the gloaming 
and the dew — stands a maiden peeping through 
watching her brother while he calls yo ! ho ! 
yo ! ho ! to the cows, three in number, standing 
ankle deep in the lush meadow grass. There 
is Cherry, Bud and Blossom, reluctant to leave 
all this sweetness of clover cool and dank — 
and the swish of the river just beyond, mur- 
muring dreamily onward, to the sea. At last 
this young athlete turns abruptly, saying, "I 
shall leave them where they are till morning. 
They are happy and content, which is more 
than I can say of myself. Halloo, Rita, you 
here?'" 

"Yes, Robert, I thought you might need 
me to help you drive the cows" — 

"I always need you, little sister, more I fancy 
than you will ever know." 

"Rita!" I am tired of this eternal grub- 
bing on the farm, it's just work all day and 
never a cent of pay — " 

"Oh! Oh! Robert, aren't you ashamed? 
You are not quite twenty years of age 
and I am almost sixteen, yet papa gives 
you lots of money; only yesterday he 
gave you fifty cents to go to the circus, and 
you have had a new bicycle, a new hat and 
a new girl, all within a week. I think that 
was just mean of you to let Gracie Mead go 
and take that old show girl. You wait till 
papa finds it out. You'll get blue blazes, see 
if you don't." 



"There, there! Rita, we are not going to 
quarrel again today, are we? Let's go home, 
mother will wonder where we are." 

So they walked leisurely homeward. Rita 
swinging her bonnet by one string as usual, 
and Robert in a brown study as he was wont 
to be of late. When they reached the house 
Rita disappeared within, but Robert sat down 
upon the porch and looked wearily toward the 
distant mountains, now scarcely visible amid 
the purple shadows and the mists that seemed 
forever hanging over the summit of old 
Wachusett. 

Perhaps it would be well to describe some- 
what the two characters I have introduced 
rather unceremoniously to the reader. 

Robert and Rita Rivers, children of a once 
"well-to-do" farmer but now simply comfort- 
able so far as this world's goods are concerned. 

Robert, the son, dark and strong with a 
surplus of energy and a will to do right, a 
little hot-headed, perchance, but quite easily 
controlled when the right influences were 
brought to bear. Rita, the daughter, a bru- 
nette, like her brother, but not strong and the 
idol of the home. 

CHAPTER II. 

The next morning found Rita, basket in 
hand, tripping merrily along towards the berry 
field. It was her delight to gather the luscious 
red raspberries of which they had quite an 
abundance, and a picture she was indeed while 
thus engaged of which she was wholly un- 
conscious. 



Stepping carefully about among the bushes, 
her pretty white fingers stained with the fruit 
which often found its way to her rosy mouth 
in lieu of the basket which she held, her bonnet 
thrown back exposing her dark brown hair 
that lay in little soft rings on her forehead, 
and an occasional curl which had managed to 
escape- falling over the dainty bust of the girl 
just emerging into womanhood. 

Rita's heart was light and her fingers deft, 
therefore it was but a short time before the 
basket was filled with berries and she started 
for home; she had not gone far, however when 
she saw a few rods ahead of her in the big, 
dusty, white road, a little girl drawing a tiny 
red cart seemingly engrossed in watching the 
wheels go round — while just beyond was a bi- 
cycle bearing down upon her and for some un- 
known reason the rider was powerless to stop 
it. Quick as thought she flew to the child, 
pushing her from under the very wheel of it, 
and then sank unconscious to the ground. 

When she opened her eyes a young man 
with a face as white as her own, was bathing 
her temples with water which he brought in 
his hat from a spring near by, and the cause 
of all this trouble, the little girl, came run- 
ning up to her, exclaiming amid sobs and 
tears, "Berries all spined." Fortunately neither 
Rita nor the little girl was seriously hurt. 

The young man, after becoming fully as- 
sured that Rita was out of danger, introduced 
himself as Herbert L. Reid from Boston, and 
was very profuse in his apologies for being so 
stupid, while little Bee Fay, the child whom 



Rita saved from perhaps worse than death, 
brought the whole episode to a close by ex- 
claiming, "Mi's 'ouse is 'ite next to Mit Ivers, 
me's goin' 'ome 'cause me's mo't 'tarved," and 
away she flew like a bird on the wing, while 
Rita and the young stranger followed at a 
more sober pace. 

CHAPTER III. 

It was not long after Rita's meeting with 
Mr. Reid, before it was noticed that they 
were together a great deal, in fact it became a 
common topic of conversation among the coun- 
try folk, so much so that at last her parents, 
Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Rivers, as well as 
Robert, her brother, remonstrated with her, but 
to no effect. For as long as God's love doth 
fold our lives within its keeping, so long 
will hearts be bought and sold whatever may 
be the reaping. 

Well, the days glided into weeks, and the 
months passed away with very little change, 
but there came a time when Mr. Reid asked 
the all important question, and when matters 
were satisfactorily settled, the young bride bade 
farewell to the scenes which would live in her 
memory forever, and went with her husband 
to his beautiful city home — and as some one 
must remain with the old folks, Robert gave 
up his show girl, and is still grubbing away 
upon the farm. 



Why does God bestow wealth upon certain 
individuals? Is it merely for their personal 
gratification, or as we see it more commonly 
illustrated to assist in the formation of an 
enormous "Trust" — that serpent of the Twen- 
tieth Century, which, with tightening coils on 
all the flux and reflux of honorable trade, 
leaves its detestable slime over everything that 
is fair and beautiful under the sun. Let us 
look a little further, and we shall see that 
with some exceptions our modern millionaires 
live principally for self, they seem to have a 
penchant for sporting fine equipages, build- 
ing palatial dwellings, covering themselves with 
diamonds, purple and fine linen, and so we 
might go on indefinitely. What is the result 
of all this? They combine in order to plunder 
those who are weaker and "grind the faces 
of the poor." Moreover, their wives and 
daughters often waste in like manner much of 
which might be spent in relieving those who 
suffer. Not that we would discourage a rea- 
sonable amount of dress — why should not the 
pure mind of woman, her artistic taste and 
sense of fitness be disclosed in her attire as 
well as in decorating her home, carving a 
statue, painting a picture, and in many other 
ways too numerous to mention. 

We all have friends, perhaps children by 
whom we would be remembered with tender 
grace, and to be careless or slovenly in dress 
is not by any means indicative of strength of 
mind, but rather argues a certain amount of 



vulgarity, just as vanity and frivolity on the 
other hand denote a weak character or brain. 
Dress is as much the expression of a man or 
woman's estimate of his or herself as the voice, 
carriage or face, and by the cultured will be 
recognized as a part of the "eternal fitness" 
of all things, but there is a limit even to 
dress, and if those who are rich could only see 
the truth, they would realize that the happi- 
ness derived from doing good is infinitely great- 
er than any aelf-satisfaction which would be 
gained from any other source whatever. 



If I am weary and shaking with cold ; 

While the gaunt wolf hunger stands at the 
door, 
My clothing thin, and poor, and old, 

And you blessed with plenty a full store, 
Pass me not in my urgent need — 

Because you know not the reason why, 
But like the Samaritan do a good deed, 

Which shall live on Forever and Aye! 

If I grow sad and tired of life 

While stumbling on o'er moss and stone, 
Borne down with toil and crushed with strife, 

Suffering, broken-hearted and quite alone; 
If we should meet on the way 

Give me your hand, nor pass me by, 
But kindly pause, and a few words say 

Which shall live on Forever and Aye! 



If we are brothers and sisters dear, 

Why do we not God's commands obey? 
And "love one another," with never a fear — 

Then when we meet on that last great day 
And lay our sheaves at the Master's Feet, 

It will be without a tear or sigh, 
And we'll walk together in counsel sweet 

Which shall live on Forever and Aye! 



i&otntnon gtenae. 

I regret to say that it is almost, if not quite 
generally, conceded that the hard times, depres- 
sion in business circles, money stringency and 
very nearly total lack of "boom" everywhere 
is due largely to extravagance, not only with 
men but women; and what has been the re- 
sult of this vain effort to keep up a hollow 
showy life or rather mode of living? Many 
prosperous men have been driven to bank- 
ruptcy, or worse, to criminal suicide, some 
even to murder their fellow men and are now 
in jail or state prison. 

Large firms have "gone to the wall," banks 
have tumbled like bricks in a row, and I might 
e;o on further and speak of the heartbroken 
husbands with depleted bank accounts, their 
lives wrecked. These statements are true, if 
startling. Does it pay? It is time for people 
to wake up to a true state of affairs, and it is 
also imperative that there should be reform 
and economy. From all these public disasters 
and broken lives, mothers should learn one 
valuable lesson. They should realize the im- 
portance of instilling into their children prin- 
ciples of steadfast honor. Plant these prin- 
ciples deep enough and build them strong 
enough to enable them to withstand the terrible 
flood of temptation that may assail them in 
after life. This may save much bitterness and 
shame in the harvest period of our existence. 

In conclusion permit me to quote from one 
of our great journalists: "Nobody thinks the 
better of you, my good lady friend, for having 



pinched, and starved and planned, during a 
month or more in order to give an entertain- 
ment like some rich neighbor. Everybody goes 
away, on the contrary, laughing at your silly 
pretense. The Duke of Devonshire was once 
asked to luncheon by a great English author, 
who, unfortunately for him, with all his 
literary genius, was as a man a snob. The 
viands were of the most expensive, the wines 
the rarest, everything was on a scale quite 
beyond the author's income. 

"The Duke went away disgusted. 'I have 
silver dishes, Lafitte claret and Pate de foi 
gras every day at home/ he said, 'these things 
are no novelty to me! What I wished and 
expected was to hear this great genius talk 
about subjects of interest; but on the contrary 
he talked like a rich cockney, who had no 
other claim to notice.' There are more people 
than is generally supposed, however, who do 
as this literary snob did. In fact, we have 
altogether too many snobs for the good of 
society. Very many have some rich neighbor 
whom he or she is copying, just as the London 
author tried to copy the great Duke of Devon- 
shire. 

"Let us have done with all this foolishness, 
and try to become more fully in touch with 
something better, higher, for instance, nobility 
of character, which is far more to be desired." 



For years past people have gone from city 
to country, and "vice versa," according to con- 
ditions, cold and heat, etc. The city bred, ac- 
customed to luxury and ease, delight in the 
breezy uplands or mountains, and cool wood- 
lands of the country in summer, there they 
find a haven of rest for a few months at least. 
They are not compelled to dress from three to 
six times per day, or to receive callers whether 
agreeable or otherwise, accept invitations, give 
dinners, whist parties, etc., etc. 

On the other hand the country bred delight 
in the city, especially at Christmas time, the 
days are full of pleasure, and in the rush and 
whirl of holiday shopping, operas and balls, 
the scene is one of unsurpassed brilliancy and 
splendor. 

Many times, however, in these exchanges of 
visits there is a wrong conception of the other. 
The country gentleman and his family, who 
have been used to lavish hospitality in their 
own home where they for long years have 
been loved and respected, may find a rather 
chilly atmosphere (other than the blasts of 
December) in their winter visit to the city. 
People who reside in large towns, while they 
are well bred, yet they are indifferent, they do 
not know neither do they have any desire to 
know their neighbors. The sick have nurses 
or doctors to care for them, and undertakers 
look after all funeral matters. There is no 
borrowing or lending, no quiltings or carpet 
rag sewings; consequently very little, if any, 



gossip — that ulcer on the fair bosom of society 
in many of the country villages — and while, 
perhaps, such a mode of living may have a 
tendency to narrow the bounds of one's life, 
the farmer under like auspices would soon fit 
into the same groove for such is the force of 
habit and environment — therefore 
Judge notl You may not know the crosses 

another has to bear, 
This world is not all sunshine though it looks 

exceeding fair, 
We shall "know as we are known," not here, 

but over there, 
"In green pastures, by still waters," we shall 

be free from care. 
My beautiful blushing roses sun-kissed — my 

lilies so saintly white, 
Bringing to mind the Madonnas with their 

sweet hallowed faces of light — 
And Mary, the mother of Jesus, our example 

of beauty and right, 
Did, or would she have censured another, (no 

matter how slight) ? 
We are all very human, but I hope we are 

kind, 
Let us try to forget not, that of flaws we shall 

find 
There are many within us, and our lives they 

will bind, 
But dear Christ ! Help us to pray — and remem- 
ber — Love is blind, 



®rUmte to a gviexxb. 

(On His Eightieth Birthday.) 

Eighty years ago, God thought of you, and 
so you came. Over cloud wavelets, past sunny 
spheres, borne ever onward by love's sweet 
messengers, whose snowy pinions brushing the 
edges of golden stars made strange music as 
they passed. Thus came you! to a fond 
mother's expectant heart, more beautiful, more 
fair, than everything, but — heaven. 
* * * * 

My beloved, patient, brave and helpful 
friend, the day has been long and wearisome, 
the night dark and dreary, and the way has 
sometimes been rough to your tired feet, but 
you have worked faithfully, cheerily on through 
the long routine of early life, laying all of 
self silently yet willingly upon the altar of 
sacrifice, hungering for a little more of love, 
thirsting for the finer appreciation of those 
for whom you have labored, yet never plead- 
ing or asking for that which, as lavishly as the 
summer rain should have been poured into 
your devoted life. But now you are weary and 
travel worn, you feel that possibly there 
can be no bright tomorrow. Unknown 
by the many, loved only by the little circle of 
intimate friends, appreciated but by the few 
to whom is given a superior sight, those who 
can discern the ring of the true metal and 
know the real from the unreal. Believe with 
me, poor tired heart, and be thy fainting soul 
cheered, refreshed and filled with new hope 



by the belief that there can be no wrong which 
shall endure more than for a season. That 
nothing is eternal but goodness, that joy Com- 
eth in the morning, and "God shall wipe away 
all tears from their eyes," and there shall 
be no more weariness, sorrow, nor pain for 
the former things have passed away. 
June 15, 1898. Fitchburg, Mass. 



Somewhere, on the silent hills, or down in 
the shadowy valley, perhaps by some rippling 
stream that is singing its way to the sea, lies 
a few feet of turf, that shall one day be laid 
aside to make room for you — or — me. Others 
shall see the dawn and close of a perfect day, 
but the searching sunlight and pale moon 
beams shall find us not. By and by the golden 
bees shall come — and fill the noon with their 
drowsy hum — gathering sweets from the flow- 
ers that draw their sustenance from the clods 
that lie upon our breasts. Sometime the stars 
shall twinkle and shine, from out the silvery 
gray of a twilight sky and drop their rays like 
the fallen petals of a lily upon our grave. The 
moon shining fair in the quiet air shall linger 
lovingly there, whitening the snow to still 
purer lustre, that dazzles and drifts upon the 
mound that covers, you— or — I. 






..J>J*J 



I 



